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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265658">Invasion of Azeroth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncantationFetter/pseuds/IncantationFetter'>IncantationFetter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Warcraft: The Whole Story [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warcraft: Orcs &amp; Humans, World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:54:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncantationFetter/pseuds/IncantationFetter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>My imagining of the events of Warcraft: Orcs &amp; Humans, based on what I know of established Warcraft lore.  I've attempted to make it more personal and visceral, seeing events through the eyes of low-ranking individuals who witnessed all the Big Events but had their own personal goals and feelings about it all.  No familiarity with Warcraft lore is needed to understand (and I hope enjoy!) the story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Warcraft: The Whole Story [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Outpost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Oshok Axmaw did upon arriving in his people’s promised land was to stumble and fall face first into the mud.  The other warriors in the group laughed until they howled, except for his older brother Tragg, who hauled Oshok roughly to his feet. </p><p>Oshok wiped the mud from his face and tried not to cringe at the expression in Tragg’s burning red eyes.  Behind Tragg’s muscular green form, the Dark Portal itself was a distraction: a swirling gateway to nothingness.  Just looking at it made Oshok’s tusks ache; passing through it had turned his joints to water. </p><p>Tragg grabbed Oshok by the arm and yanked him closer.  “Pull yourself together!” he growled.  His ragged black hair stood straight up like an angry lynx’s.  “Don’t make Saurfang question your age; I won’t lie for you again.”</p><p>Oshok yanked his arm back, arranged his face into a hard expression, and straightened his spine so that he loomed over Tragg.  While his recent growth spurt sometimes made his limbs feel as though they’d been borrowed from someone else, his size was what had gotten him this assignment at sixteen: two years younger than the minimum for the vanguard of Warchief Blackhand’s forces. </p><p>Tragg nodded, apparently satisfied at Oshok’s demeanor, and then let him go.  Tragg turned to the rest of the group.  “We head north!” he barked.  “We do not stop to rest until we find Saurfang.  He will give us our next orders.”</p><p>They were twenty orcs in total – Warchief Blackhand preferred they enter in small groups so as to move undetected through enemy territory until they were well fortified.  All of this latest group were of Blackrock clan, the Warchief’s own.   Advance scouts from the Bleeding Hollow and Black Tooth Grin clans had made the way safer for them and had even cut a barely-detectable path through the marshy growth for them to follow. </p><p>While some of the others grumbled at Tragg’s order to press on without rest, Tragg had already beaten any potential rivals into submission, earning himself temporary authority until they arrived at the outpost of their official commander.</p><p>Oshok was thrilled to have been assigned to Saurfang’s outpost.  Varok Saurfang had been among the first to be empowered by drinking from the Cup of Unity, and he had personally led the glorious sacking of the draenei city of Shattrath.  Although rumor had it that his mate and possibly his son had recently died in the chaos at home, there had been no sign of weakness in him as he continued to press forward to the new world.</p><p>Warchief Blackhand’s other two lieutenants, Eitrigg and Doomhammer, were less impressive in Oshok’s eyes.  Old Eitrigg’s only claim to fame, as far as Oshok could tell, was having survived to middle age.  He claimed no honor-name of deed or bloodline – he was simply “Eitrigg,” as his mother had named him.  And while Orgrim Doomhammer had a storied bloodline and currently served as Warchief Blackhand’s second, he had not drunk from the Cup of Unity at all, claiming himself unworthy.  Both of these men reeked of humility, which was a good quality in a follower, but not in a leader.  Oshok knew that Blackhand would be watching the three closely to choose a successor in the unlikely event of his death, and it seemed to Oshok that Saurfang was the obvious choice.  If the worst should befall the Warchief, only Saurfang had the confidence to take Blackhand’s place in this new and hostile world.</p><p>So far, the “promised land” did not impress Oshok any more than Eitrigg and Doomhammer did.  Oshok scowled at the murky landscape as they marched north along the trail, shaking his head violently on occasion as though it could get the relentless, scraping trills of foreign birds and insects out of his ears.  Perhaps the Bleeding Hollow scouts had felt at home in this humid, bug-infested swamp, eating toads and grubs, but a Blackrock orc – a <em>true</em> orc -- was made for the arid mountain peaks and caves from which their race had sprung.</p><p>To quell his rising annoyance, Oshok reminded himself that they were in this wasteland for a reason.  A mysterious sorcerer from this world had allied with the Shadowmoon clan's warlock Gul’Dan to create the Dark Portal, and he had chosen this spot <em>because</em> it was too unpleasant to be inhabited.  The idea was to get a large force through and established before the natives even knew they were being invaded.  But in theory there were mountains, lush forests, and fertile fields in this world… somewhere.</p><p>Saurfang’s outpost-in-progress Rockard – a full day’s march northwest from the portal through the sluggish terrain - was well hidden among twisted trees whose branches trailed misty strings of moss like an old woman’s hair.  The Black Tooth Grin scouts and first waves of Blackrock warriors had done a fine job setting up the basics: in addition to sturdy sleeping huts for the grunts to share there was a crude forge for metalworking and a small enclosure full of listless boars.</p><p>Oshok, who hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours, eyed the boars.  “Those runts won’t be nearly enough to feed all of us,” he murmured to Tragg as they arrived.  For once his brother didn’t cuff him or argue with him; in fact the older orc’s stomach rumbled audibly.</p><p>“Hungry?” growled a low voice behind them.  Oshok turned and startled, finding himself staring directly into the burning eyes of Varok Saurfang himself.  Saurfang’s blue-black braids showed not a strand of silver, but his face bore the marks of a man who had seen and done much.</p><p>“Yes, sir!” Oshok said, slamming a fist over his heart in salute.</p><p>“Then <em>hunt</em>,” Saurfang snarled.  “Are we <em>draenei, </em>sitting at shiny tables waiting for food to magically appear?  We are <em>Blackrock</em>.  We will bend this land to our will, or we will die.  Do I make myself clear?”</p><p>“Yes, sir!” said Oshok.</p><p>Saurfang turned to survey the new arrivals and grunted softly to himself.  “You, you, and you,” he said, pointing to Tragg and two others.  “Head to the forge and make something of those broken blades.  The rest of you, pair up for sparring.  I want to see what you can do.”</p><p>“Sending three leaves an odd number,” Oshok blurted before he could stop himself.</p><p>“You,” Saurfang growled, pointing at Oshok.  “Want to make it even?  Report to Elka in the swamp.  She is hunting, to the west.  If you survive long enough to find her, you are welcome in our camp.  If not… one less loud and hungry mouth.”</p><p>“Dabu,” said Oshok. Then he hesitated, disoriented by the long trek through the gloomy morass.  “West is…?”</p><p>“<em>That way</em>!” Saurfang bellowed, loudly enough half the camp paused in their activity to look over at him as he stabbed a finger westward.  Then the great commander shook his head in disgust, making the finger-bones in his braids rattle, and turned away to attend to the other arrivals.</p><p>Oshok knew that Saurfang probably hoped some wild beast would eat him before he returned.  But he was determined to prove himself.  He would find and kill a beast large enough to share its flesh with the whole camp, and then his commander would see what he was made of.</p><p>If he could even figure out how to <em>walk</em> in this accursed swamp.  Everywhere he looked was the same dark fetid muck with pale blades of grass poking through it, but sometimes when he stepped his foot would squelch in up to the ankle, and sometimes plunge through watery mud up to the thigh.  He resisted the urge to roar with frustration; he was already making more than enough noise.  He quickly gave up on his dream of sneaking up on an edible beast; anything canny enough to survive in this wilderness would have long heard him coming, even though there was little danger of the dead stagnant air carrying his scent very far.  He pressed on westward, becoming more and more splattered with reeking mud as he went.</p><p>Just when he had thought his simple mission could not be more of a disaster, he heard a <em>thwack</em> and felt a sharp stinging just below his collarbone.  Feeling a rush of exultation, he looked down and saw the feathered shaft of an arrow sticking out of his chest.  The tip had pierced his tough hide just enough to lodge there, barely nicking the muscle beneath. </p><p>Finally.  Time to kill something.  He ripped the arrow out of his flesh and charged in the direction it had come from, straight through a silvery curtain of hanging moss.</p><p>His charge took the archer by surprise.  It was some sort of hideous pale pinkish creature with a nose like a rodent’s and an abundance of yellow hair.  He grabbed its head in both hands and with one sharp twist and a savage grin, broke the creature’s neck. </p><p>Disappointed in the brevity of the battle, he bent low to examine his kill, heart still pounding with excitement.  It was dressed in blue cloth and well-made leather of sophisticated design.  Its small round ears lay close against the sides of its head; it must have been all but deaf.  The size and spacing of its eyes indicated that it relied mostly on sight, but the pale orbs did not reflect back the fading daylight, which meant poor night vision.  The round high forehead suggested intelligence, the delicate pink hands had opposable thumbs –</p><p>Two more arrows lodged into his back.  He grunted and turned; the creature had not been alone.  Two of its pale-skinned fellows stood in the shadows of the trees, aiming peculiar sideways bows at him.  Without even bothering to yank the troublesome projectiles from his back, he grabbed for the small pair of axes that hung at his hips and charged the nearest archer, resisting the urge to let out a war cry.  No telling how many more of these creatures would hear and come running.  Even now, he saw the glint of steel as three more with swords approached from behind the archers.  He noted with fierce satisfaction that they seemed to be struggling as much in the mud as he was.</p><p>Now <em>this</em> was a battle.  Oshok honored his family tradition by opening a new “mouth” in one archer’s throat with the blade of his right-hand axe, then struggled his way through the muck toward the other, who was already backing away toward the approaching trio of swordsmen.</p><p>A small throwing spear, sailing from seemingly nowhere, entered the archer’s back at a high angle and came out through its stomach.  The archer fell forward into the mud.</p><p>Oshok did not have time to look for the spear-thrower; he was already engaging the swordsmen, both axes whirling in a powerful, bloody dance that thrilled his soul.  More spears sailed down from above; none of them missed their mark.  In less than a minute, the six pale-skins lay dead, and not long afterward a lithe, muscular, olive-green form leaped down from above.  She landed in a crouch on one of the rare patches of nearly dry land, her tall, battered wooden shield held before her.</p><p>Elka, the scout.  To Oshok's surprise, he recognized her only faintly.  Blackrock was a large clan, and he couldn't name all its members on sight, but she was odd enough looking that he was surprised she hadn't stuck in his memory.  She was older than both him and Tragg, though still leanly muscled and in her prime.  Her reddish-black hair was chopped short like a male’s, her tusks were small and feeble, and her pointed face was almost as narrow as those of the fallen natives.</p><p>“Let’s pretend you distracted them on purpose,” she said dryly.  “Then I might thank you.  They’ve been hunting for me for an hour.”</p><p>“Saurfang sent me to find you,” he said.</p><p>She spat in the mud.  “He’s wondering why I’m late.  They are why.”  She pointed to the half dozen bodies.</p><p>“What are they?”</p><p>“I don’t know what they call themselves,” she said.  “But we should bring one back to the camp for study.  They are what we will be conquering.”</p><p>Oshok looked around.  The swamp was quiet now, save for that constant, maddening buzz.  “There weren’t many,” he said, “but look at their weapons.  Their boots.  They are… <em>complex</em>.  Tiny little holes.”</p><p>Elka nodded with a grunt, and then tilted her head at Oshok, her dark eyes narrowing in an assessing expression.  Dark eyes, not red.  Blackhand hadn’t judged her worthy of the Cup of Unity, then.  For a moment, Oshok enjoyed a feeling of superiority.</p><p>“Specialized craftsmen,” she said.  “Fine tools.  Large settlements.  West of the pass, maybe, but not here.”</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“I’ve been all over this swamp the past few weeks,” said Elka.  “There are no settlements of any kind.”</p><p>“Then why are they here?”</p><p>“Because they are looking for us.  They’re aware something has changed in this area.  We should expect more of them.”</p><p>Oshok frowned.  So much for their plans to get Blackhand’s vanguard here in secret.  “Should Saurfang move his camp?” he asked.</p><p>Elka shook her head, moving to retrieve her throwing spears from the corpses.  “He chose a good spot, I think.  Its towers, once they're built, will have a clear view of anyone emerging from the pass through that nearby ridge of mountains.  From the patterns of the natives' movements, I believe they're coming from beyond that pass, and they are here merely from curiosity.”  She gave a slow grin, and only then did he notice the missing front tooth that marked her as part of the Black Tooth Grin clan.  That explained she was only vaguely familiar.  Her clan had split off as the scouting arm of Blackrock half a dozen years ago, when he was still a child.  “Fear will come,” Elka said. </p><p>Spitting on each spear as she removed it from the corpse it had impaled, Elka rubbed it clean of blood with a rough stained rag.  She carefully returned each spear to its slot on the back of her shield, which she then replaced on her back.  The gesture signaled Oshok that they were no longer in combat, and he returned his axes to his belt, but the bloodlust had not quite left him.  He ground his teeth impatiently.</p><p>“I have killed all the natives I found before now,” Elka said, either not noticing his tension or not caring, “but this was my first encounter with their archers.  They carry crossbows, like the draenei.  I hate those things.  They remove my advantage very quickly.”</p><p>“If we kill <em>all</em> who come here," said Oshok, "they will quickly understand the threat.  They will keep sending larger forces."</p><p>Elka looked sharply at him.  “You’re right,” she said.  She frowned -- not, it would seem, in disapproval.  Her dark eyes went distant for a moment in thought, and then suddenly she grinned savagely, showing that missing tooth again.</p><p>“What?” Oshok said warily.</p><p>“I have a plan,” she said.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Swamp Monster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For generations, the stone watchtower on the eastern edge of the Ference estate had stood as a symbol.  The descendants of Simon Ference stood as protectors of Brightwood, ever vigilant against threats from the wastelands in the east.  It was perhaps somewhat embarrassing, then, that in the century since the tower’s construction the only dangers to Brightwood had come from the south. </p><p>Nevertheless, as young Sir Elohad Ference rode his dappled courser past the tower, trailed by a dozen footmen and half a dozen archers, his golden hair glinting in the chill spring sunlight, he felt the solemn weight of ancestral duty.  Several croc-hunters had disappeared in the eastern morass in the three months since his knighting, and his father had also failed to return from one of his customary trips east to visit with the local wizard.  Perhaps most alarmingly of all, the small party of trained scouts that the Ference estate's guard-captain had sent three days ago had also failed to return.  It seemed that the inchoate menace that hung over the eastern wastes, discouraging generations of settlers, had finally manifested as an actual threat.</p><p>“Stay alert, men!” Elo said as he entered the Deadwind Pass, feeling sheepish as his voice reverberated awkwardly from the dull gray rock around them.  The echoes seemed to mock him, making him sound young and uncertain.  If his men noticed, they concealed it well.</p><p>The pass itself was not dangerous, despite its unsettling aura.  This primary route to the swamp cut east across a ravine running north and south through the Redridge Mountains.  His father's eccentric wizard-friend dwelled in a tower at the ravine’s southern end, but he was harmless: relatively young as powerful wizards went, and a bit of a playboy.  Usually Lord Crispin Ference returned from his little soirees smug and disheveled after a day or two at most; he'd now been absent nearly three weeks. </p><p>Aside from the wizard and his occasional lavish galas, the ravine stood utterly empty year-round: the soil was unnaturally barren and supported not even the smallest forms of life.</p><p>It was in the vast swamps on the far side of the ravine that the missing hunters and scouts had likely met their end.  As the Black Morass was unsuitable for settlement and there was no path into it that didn’t cross a wizard’s eerie domain, the area was seldom traversed.  Almost anything might lurk there and remain undiscovered for years.</p><p><em>Someone is counting on that</em>, said a voice at the back of Elo’s mind, a gut instinct whose logic eluded him.  Who could possibly be plotting against Brightwood?  The trolls had been the only threats in this part of the kingdom of Stormwind, and they’d been beaten back south to Stranglethorn Vale before Elo was even born.  Why, then, was he shaken by a feeling of foreboding?</p><p>The hard-packed gray earth on the far side of Deadwind Pass had only just begun to soften into wetland mud under his courser’s hooves when his keen young eyes spotted a small flash of white at a distance, out of place among the drab grays and browns of the swamp.</p><p>“Look there!” he called to his footmen, pointing, and one of them advanced, trotting clumsily through the shallow muck.  Keeping a wary eye on his surroundings, the dark-bearded man approached and knelt to examine the object.</p><p>“It’s a scrap of someone’s sleeve,” he called back.  “Looks like it caught on a thorn.”</p><p>Elo carefully guided his horse closer, scanning the surroundings from his higher vantage point.  There, again, in the distance, a hint of color that did not belong.  Something bright red.  He spurred his horse, investigating, and found a discarded shield half buried in the mud.</p><p>“There must have been a battle here,” Elo mused aloud.  “Does anyone see a body?”</p><p>The men searched, grumbled uneasily, shook their heads.</p><p>Elo rode a bit further in the same direction, and – there! – once again, he spotted something out of place.  White, again, but quite far, and hard to make out.  He beckoned to his men and rode onward. </p><p>The deeper they journeyed into the swamp, the more uneasy Elo felt, even though he had been here last year, with his father, as part of his training.  The buzz of the insects and the damp of the air seemed to close in around them, and he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.</p><p>“Men,” he said quietly, “I need some of you to keep eyes behind us, and to the side, at all times.  If you spot any movement at all, alert me immediately.”</p><p>“Yes sir,” a few of the footmen murmured, quietly.  Bless them for sharing his sense of caution. </p><p>When they arrived at the spot Elo had noticed, they found the remains of the shirt that had earlier been torn.  He could see where the thorn-caught scrap would fit to the ragged end of the sleeve.  The garment was hung from a branch, as though to dry, or—</p><p>Or what?</p><p>Once again, Elo searched the distance in the direction they were traveling, and again he spotted color.  Blue, now.  Just at the limits of his vision.</p><p>It shouldn’t have been this easy to find signs of the missing men.  They should have been wandering for hours.  Elo’s dappled courser shifted and whickered uneasily.</p><p>“We’re being led,” Elo murmured aloud.  Only the footman nearest him, the one with the dark beard – Ansel, wasn’t it? – seemed to hear him.  His expression was puzzled.</p><p>“Wot do you mean?”</p><p>“Someone is placing these items for us to find.  The question is, were these things left by the missing men to make it easier to rescue them?  Or… is this what they themselves were following when they disappeared?”</p><p>Ansel visibly shivered.  “Why d’you say things like that, melord?  It’s spooky.”</p><p>“Clever, though,” said the ginger woman next to him.  Danna.  She’d been an archer in Lord Ference’s service for as long as Elo could remember.  She was already reaching for her bow.  “Young lord’s always been clever,” she said.  “I’d keep your weapons ready, were I you.”</p><p>As they followed the trail, the signs became less innocuous.  Spatters of dried blood.  Then clear signs of bodies having been dragged.  And yet still, no one appeared to attack or threaten the search party.  The swamp was eerily silent but for the expected animal sounds.</p><p>Eventually, the increasingly gory trail led to a cave set into a huge rocky hill.  It was a large cave, and too dark inside to see very far, but flame flickered dimly within, and even at a distance a dreadful stench emerged.  Ansel pressed the back of his hand to his nose and squinted.  Elo, meanwhile, tried to figure out exactly what he was smelling.  Charred flesh, but also decay.  And the excrement of… something.  Human?  Possibly.  Elo was pleased not to be an expert in such matters.</p><p>“Do we… go in there, melord?” Ansel whispered.  His expression suggested he’d rather walk directly into the maw of a crocolisk.</p><p>Elo shook his head.  “I think… that’s exactly what they want us to do,” he said, so low his men had to crowd around, making his courser nervous.  “I think that’s what our search party did.  And those hunters.  Whoever is in there – bandits, madmen, trolls -- we need to find some way to lure them out.”  He paused, scanning the surroundings.  “Archers, get up in the trees, hide yourselves as best you can but keep your arrows trained on the cave mouth.  Footmen: half of you on one side of the cave, half of you on the other, right up against the hillside.  Crouch silently and prepare to ambush whoever it is when they exit.  No matter what I do or say, do not move a muscle until you are certain you can strike at … whatever comes out of there.”</p><p>The men scurried to obey his order.</p><p>“Danna,” he said quietly before she could move out of earshot.</p><p>“Yes, melord?”  She crept closer, close enough he could see the crow’s feet at the corners of her pale-lashed eyes.</p><p>“Once you’re in position,” he whispered, “if our foes haven’t emerged from their cave yet, I want you to shoot my horse.”</p><p>Her eyes widened.  “I beg your—”</p><p>“You’re a good shot, aren’t you?”</p><p>“The best, melord.”  Her shoulders straightened.</p><p>“Just graze his rump, if you can.  Enough to make him scream, not enough to do him lasting harm.”</p><p>“But melord, he’s sure to bolt, or—”</p><p>“Please do as I say.”</p><p>Danna ducked her head.  “Yes, melord.”</p><p>“And <em>whatever</em> I say, even if I call for you by name, do not get out of your tree until they’re all dead, whoever they are.  Stay up there and keep loosing arrows.”</p><p>This time she only nodded, paling under her freckles, and started toward the nearest climbable tree.</p><p>Slowly, Elo rode toward the cave.  He led his horse through puddles on purpose; the courser’s hooves made deep, satisfying splashing sounds that would be easily audible to whoever was huddled around that fire.  But still, no one emerged.  Not surprising; whoever it was would be hoping to lure him inside, and was likely waiting in an ambush of their own.</p><p>He reined in the horse just outside the cave, and waited.  He must have been trembling, because the courser shifted uneasily and began to back up, eyes rolling.</p><p>“Steady,” Elo said, easing his feet from the stirrups.  “Easy—”</p><p>An arrow sang through the air, and the courser suddenly reared, letting out a high-pitched scream of pain.  Elo let himself fall, and he did not have to fake his cry of pain as all the air rushed from his lungs and something in his shoulder cracked.  He rolled away from the horse’s hooves as it shied and bolted a few yards into the swamp.</p><p>One of the footmen who was crouched beside the cave mouth started to get to her feet, but Elo shook his head violently.  The woman lowered herself back down, looking panicked.</p><p>“Danna!” Elo called out, letting himself sound pained.  “Danna, come quickly, I’m hurt!”  Letting out an unfeigned moan, he dragged himself further from the cave mouth with his good arm.  “Danna!  I fell off my horse!”</p><p>He hoped she’d remembered to stay in that tree and keep an arrow nocked.  Because something was moving in the cave, now.  Something <em>huge</em>.  Elo had assumed it must be a group of men, or trolls, but from the way the ground shook, it was like nothing he’d ever seen.  And it was coming for him.</p><p>He rolled further away, giving the footmen room to intercept it.  He uttered a brief prayer that a dozen men and six archers would be enough – a prayer that was interrupted as soon as he saw what was coming out of the cave.  The sight of that creature was enough to make anyone’s faith in the Light falter.</p><p>It stood easily twice as high as any man Elo had ever seen, and it was nearly as broad as it was tall.  A single horn jutted from the apex of its skull, and two thick tusks protruded from its jutting lower jaw.  It wore a filthy loincloth and carried a club the size of Elo himself.  Yelling a few words in an unknown language, the parchment-colored beast began to stomp toward him, making the ground tremble.</p><p>Arrows began to sail down from the branches of nearby trees, startling the creature into halting its advance, and it was then that the footmen charged at its flanks.  If it had been a human, or even a group of humans, the careful setup would have allowed them to kill or capture it with no friendly casualties -- but the thing was apparently possessed of preternaturally thick hide.  Seeming only vaguely annoyed by the blades that stabbed into it from behind, it wheeled around and killed three footmen with one swing of its club, pulverizing their heads into a red mist so quickly they didn’t even have time to feel the pain.</p><p>Elo tried to get to his feet and help, but the shoulder he’d fallen on appeared to be dislocated, and his other arm was suddenly too shaky to bear his weight.<br/>
<br/>
New prayer: <em>Please, Light,</em> <em>let that thing be the only one</em>.</p><p>Another footman fell, but at last several arrows in the face and a sword through the groin sent the creature crashing to its knees.  There, the remaining eight footmen hacked it to pieces in a frenzy of fear.  Its blood was strangely dark, as though the stuff had already half clotted in its veins.</p><p>The stillness that fell after the battle was heavy; even the insects and birds seemed shocked into silence.  Elo stared mutely at the body of the monster they had slain until he felt Danna’s arms around him; she was down from her tree and had apparently forgotten he was no longer a little boy.  Under the circumstances he could forgive the disrespect; he was shaking uncontrollably.</p><p>“Danna,” he managed to say.</p><p>“Are you all right, melord?”  She sounded frantic.  “I got him in the eyes, did you see?  I got him.”</p><p>“I’ll be all right,” Elo said, teeth clenched.  “But I need you to -- help me set my shoulder back in place.”</p><p>Danna cringed, but did as he asked.  His cry echoed through the swamp.  Nothing else, thankfully, came to investigate the sound of pained prey.  When Elo had caught his breath, he turned once again to stare at the huge, impossible corpse.</p><p>“Melord,” said Ansel, emerging from inside the cave.  “I can account for every hunter and scout lost,” he said.  “All in that cave.  Can’t recognize all of ‘em for sure, some’s naught but bones… but the numbers add up.”<br/>
<br/>
Elo felt every muscle in his body tense.  "Father...?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not among 'em."<br/>
<br/>
Elo exhaled, wobbly with relief.  Most likely, the wizard and all his noble friends had simply gotten carried away in their revelry, possibly even gone on a spontaneous trip to some other part of the world via a mystic portal.  Whatever eccentric thing the wizard Medivh wanted, no one ever told him no.</p><p>“Light’s mercy…” Elo said, ashamed to feel tears prickling his eyes.  “What <em>was</em> that thing?”</p><p>“One of the mad wizard’s experiments gone wrong, I bet,” said one of the footmen, and spat.  “Wish we could make ‘im answer for it.”</p><p>“Whatever it is,” Danna said, still holding Elo, “it’s dead.  And none of us better tell ‘is father wot young Elo did to fetch it out ‘ere, or ‘e’ll ‘ang us all.”</p><p> </p>
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